


Salon’s enough for her, not to feel so insecure.

by Honey_Dewey



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bad Nicknames, Chapter two replaces the pining with kissing, Fluff, Gaby and Napoleon are BFFs, Girl’s Night, Idiots in Love, Multi, Napoleon also has a southern accent, Napoleon has naturally curly hair, Pining Gaby, Pining Napoleon, Pining illya, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, We’re all pining here, a tiny bit of angst, change my mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honey_Dewey/pseuds/Honey_Dewey
Summary: After a long mission, Gaby and Napoleon have a girl’s night, complete with face masks, nail polish, and shit talking the UNCLE staff.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller, Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 27
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can pry Napoleon with curly hair out of my cold dead hands
> 
> Also, as someone with those very same curls, only longer, I absolutely stand by the headcanon that he hates them. 
> 
> Also also, his favorite Disney movie would totally be Peter Pan. No discussion because I’m right. 
> 
> But, this was inspired by/based off of a Tumblr Post I saw! And I’m a sucker for soft fluff, so here we go!

“You’re a fucking mess.” 

That was not the first thing Gaby wanted to hear when she dropped into their hotel room. She knew what she looked like, all greasy and dirt crusted, but Solo really didn’t look better. At least she wasn’t bleeding. 

“Why thank you Solo,” she said. It had become a running joke to only call Napoleon by his last name, after he refused to call her anything but ‘Miss. Teller.’ 

Napoleon smiled. He was in an old button up, the first few buttons undone to reveal the patch of gauze taped over the bullet graze on his right pec, and a pair of simple black pyjama pants. “My darling Teller, you’ll find that I have managed to procure a few items I know you most dearly miss.” 

“Alcohol?” If Napoleon had managed to get her a bottle of something, she might even call him by his name. 

“Better.” Napoleon reached into a bag by his side and tossed Gaby a small container. It was familiar, a black tub with a green and brown lid. “We’re having girl’s night.” 

Gaby smiled. The pair of them usually had a girl’s night on particularly tough missions, or whenever one of them got to a store with beauty products. Right now, post Napoleon getting shot and Illya getting called out on a secondary mission, Gaby decided she definitely needed girl’s night. 

Settling on the bathroom counter, Gaby popped the mud mask container open, grinning and scooping two fingers into the concoction. It was deep green and smelled strongly of salt and dirt. 

“Come here Solo,” She said, beckoning him closer. He obliged, scooting his stool closer. Gaby painted the mud mask across his forehead, giggling. “You look ridiculous.” 

She covered his face in mud, pushing his hair up and out of his face with a cloth headband she had used earlier in the day. “The picture of beauty, Solo.” 

“Do you think I’ll get all the boys?” He teased, taking the mud mask container and beginning to apply it to her face. He was open about his attraction to men and women with her, especially after Gaby caught him making puppy eyes at Illya once. To be fair, Illya hadn’t noticed because he was too busy making puppy eyes at Gaby, but still. The fact that someone had caught him staring made him nervous. 

“Of course, Solo,” Gaby hummed. “As long as you save some for me.” 

Once Gaby’s mask was on, Napoleon reached into his bag again and produced a small nail care kit, holding a hand out. Gaby reluctantly stuck her left hand into his right, ready for the onslaught of comments. 

“Hm,” Napoleon examined her hands. “Nails in exchange for hair?” 

“It’s a deal.” 

Napoleon nodded, beginning the simple yet relaxing task of scraping the dirt out from under Gaby’s nails.

As he did that, they talked. It was customary to talk shit on UNCLE employees when they had girl’s night, and that was just what they did. 

“Did you see that new girl who works in the filing room?” Napoleon asked, wiping the thin metal tool he was using on a towel. “The one who’s been making eyes at Illya.” 

“She what!?”

Napoleon chuckled. “She’s too chatty for him. Plus, she’s not his type.” 

“We all know what his type is,” Gaby said, leaning back and sighing.

“Yeah,” Napoleon grinned, wiping the tool again. The white towel was pretty much ruined with thin lines of whatever muck had been crusted under Gaby’s nails. “You and me and that’s it.” 

Gaby laughed, making the half dried mask around her mouth crack. “People who could theoretically kick his ass!” 

“He’d beat me.” 

Gaby snorted. “Yeah right. I saw that car chase, he could never.” 

Napoleon turned red around the ears, taking Gaby’s other hand. “When we were introduced, my boss and his boss had us fight. He, well, he quickly and effectively pinned me down. I had to surrender.” 

“Huh,” Gaby examined Napoleon’s face. “Slick.” 

“Yep,” Napoleon eyed the tub of mud. “There’s enough in there for one more.” 

“Are you saying what I hope you’re saying?” 

“We ambush Kuryakin and give him a spa day?” 

Gaby smiled. “You are a blessing, Solo.” 

“So,” Napoleon said, eager to change the subject off Illya. “The new guy Waverly hired. How long do you give him?” 

“The one who dropped coffee all over your shoes?” Gaby snorted. “Two more weeks, tops. Unless he learns manners.” 

The thin metal tool was placed down and Napoleon picked up a nail file. “I say three. Waverly is more forgiving than most.” 

They were silent after that. The radio was on, playing a few hits from the previous decade. Napoleon hummed along to a few of them, but he seemed particularly happy when Que Sera, Sera came on. 

“My mom loves this song,” he admitted softly. “She wrote me weekly when I was enlisted, but this came out right before I left. She taught me to dance to this song. It always made her happy.” 

Gaby was silent throughout the song, but when it ended, she quietly asked Napoleon a question. “What was your mother like?” 

“Sweetest woman you’ve ever met,” Napoleon said calmly, abandoning the nail file in favor of clear nail polish. “She was from the Deep South, with an accent to match. You think Illya’s accent is hard to understand? Try listening to it when you learned to speak from a Georgia woman.” He paused, focusing on steadying his hands as he painted Gaby’s nails. “She can bake like nobody’s business though. Her pies are the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I try and replicate them from time to time, but to no avail.” 

Gaby smiled. Napoleon looked calm, at complete ease when he talked about his mother. 

“Alright,” Napoleon finally said, closing the nail polish. “Ten minutes.” 

“Perfect.” Gaby said, head tipping as she focused on the radio. “Oh!” She jumped up and carefully turned the volume dial up. “I love this song!” 

Napoleon made a face. “Solomon Burke? Really?” 

“What?” Gaby began to dance loosely. “You don’t like this song?” 

“Well, I never said that.” 

Ten minutes later, Gaby and Napoleon were curled up in one of the hotel beds, Napoleon’s head in Gaby’s lap. She had a small comb and a cup of water beside her, both items balanced precariously on a book. 

“Be careful,” Napoleon hummed, not even bothering to open his eyes. Gaby resisted the urge to flick him between the eyes, instead, settling on ‘accidentally’ dripping water on his face. Her lap was safe enough, a towel protecting her pyjama pants from becoming wet. 

Gaby slowly began to use the wet comb to remove all the product Napoleon used to achieve the slicked look he wore during the day. As soon as she had discovered he had curls, she insisted on caring for them. He was happy to just tame and forget them, but she wouldn’t stand for that. 

“Your hair is so nice,” she murmured, curling a strand around her finger and watching it bounce as she let it fall against his head. “I don’t understand how you can possibly hate these curls.” 

“It’s different when they’re attached to your head.” 

Gaby sighed, forgetting the comb in favor of using her fingers to detangle Napoleon’s hair. “I know girls who would kill for these kinds of big, fat curls.” She smiled. Napoleon had what her mother would’ve called ‘sausage curls.’ Big and bouncy, they made ringlets that were an inch thick, and had an almost boyish quality to them. “Has Illya ever seen them?” 

“No.” 

“Well he will tonight,” Gaby decided firmly. 

Napoleon sighed, but didn’t say anything. Gaby figured he must be exhausted. She dipped the edge of a small towel in her water cup, softly wiping Napoleon’s face free of the fully dried mud mask. 

The door opened slowly, quietly. Gaby didn’t even bother looking up. Only one person entered a room that way. Illya had returned. 

“If you wake him up, I’ll kick your ass.” She whispered, gesturing to the half asleep Napoleon in her lap. 

“‘M not asleep.” 

Gaby snorted softly, turning the radio up and letting the calming voice of Kathryn Beaumont fill the hotel room. 

“Peter Pan?” Napoleon smiled. “Now that’s unfair.” 

“Go to sleep Napoleon,” Gaby murmured, wiping the mask from her own face. “You deserve it.” 

He did, very quickly. Gaby managed to scoot away, leaving Napoleon on his side, damp hair flopping onto his forehead. 

“Illya,” she greeted, stepping into the bathroom. “Do you want to sleep with Solo tonight?” 

Illya peered through the doorframe. “He sleeps like baby.” 

“I brushed his hair,” Gaby said. “Works every time.” 

“Hm,” Illya nodded. “His hair, it curls.” 

“It does.” Gaby agreed. “He’s very cute like that.” 

Illya turned red, pulling himself into his pyjamas. “Didn’t know he was curly.” 

Gaby crawled into the second bed, watching Illya carefully maneuver into he bed beside Napoleon. The CIA agent wasted no time cuddling into Illya’s embrace, even deep in sleep. As he buried his face into Illya’s shoulder, the poor Russian looked, with an almost panicked expression, at Gaby. She simply shrugged, hitting the light and sending the room into darkness. 

Illya was woken early in the morning, when Napoleon began to grip his shirt rather tightly. Had Illya not been KGB, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed. But he was, and so even the smallest movement forced him awake. 

“Cowboy?” 

Napoleon simply gripped him tighter. Illya hesitantly wrapped Napoleon in a hug, the same way he’d seen Gaby do when Napoleon had a breakdown after an incident involving a live wire and a substantial amount of gunshots. Arms solidly around Napoleon’s chest, his head pressed into Illya’s shoulder. Napoleon tangled his legs with Illya’s. His feet were cold, and Illya resisted the urge to pull away. 

“Peril?” 

Illya’s heart broke. Napoleon sounded so small, sad and weak. So unlike the suave agent Illya was used to. “Yes Cowboy?” 

Napoleon loosened. “Warm.” 

“I am,” Illya agreed, wrapping Napoleon up tighter. He didn’t resist, only buried himself deeper into the embrace. “Are you okay, Cowboy?” 

“Yep.” 

“Lies.” Illya murmured. He could feel the lie, sticky like mud, forcing its way out of Napoleon’s throat. “You cannot lie to me Solo.” 

Napoleon froze. “You said my name.” 

Illya sighed. “Comforting. Solo. It is comforting.” 

“If you wanted to comfort me, why didn’t you say my first name?” 

“Cannot pronounce it.”

Napoleon smiled, Illya feeling it on his chest. “You’re too cute.” 

Illya blinked a few times. He was cute? “Go to sleep,” he paused, trying to emulate the way Gaby said ‘Napoleon’ in his head. “‘Leon.” 

Napoleon laughed. “Thank you Illya.” 

Of course, as Napoleon drifted off, Illya carefully ran his fingers through his hair, tangling the curls around his fingers. 

“Hmmmm,” Napoleon hummed, cuddling closer to Illya. “Don’t stop.” 

“Will not stop.”

In the morning, Napoleon rolled out of bed with a severe bed head and a brand new nickname. Illya called him ‘Leon’ as he pushed his coffee across the table, and Gaby caught on quickly. He merely sighed. It was too early for a clever rebuff. He needed time and caffeine to think of his witty comebacks. 

As he got ready, Illya joined him in the bathroom. He only needed to brush his teeth, but curiously watched as Napoleon packed up his and Gaby’s girl’s night supplies and pulled out the product he used in his hair. 

“No,” Illya took the container from Napoleon, much to Napoleon’s annoyance. “Not today Cowboy.” 

Napoleon attempted to wrestle the tub away from Illya, but Illya held it above his head, where Napoleon couldn’t reach. 

“Why do you torment me like this?” Napoleon whined, reminiscent of a child. 

“You look good,” Illya pointed out, pocketing the tub of product. “I like the curls.” 

Napoleon, defeated, walked out of the bathroom. 

“Gaby,” he said, in a tone loud enough from Illya to hear. “I think, for our next girl’s night, we should include Illya.” 

Illya poked his head out of the bathroom door. “What?” 

Gaby grinned. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months later, Illya gets dragged into girl’s night. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU CAN PRY SOUTHERN NAPOLEON FROM MY LIFELESS CORPSE. 
> 
> No but seriously, we love three very different accents. 
> 
> I also very much love this chapter. It’s sweet and there’s pining, and not even a hint of angst. 
> 
> So here you are, this is how the Trio got together.

“Illya!” Gaby tugged Illya into the hotel room. “You’re back! Just in time, Solo just filled the bathtub!” 

“What?” Illya froze, perfectly akin to a deer caught in very bright headlights. 

Gaby rolled her eyes. “Girl’s night, you’re joining us!” 

Illya coughed. “What if I am tired?” 

“Then you can come be tired in here.” 

The sound of splashing water greeted Illya as he followed Gaby into the bathroom. It was large, a testament to how Waverly treated his hardest working agents. Napoleon was already seated on the bathtub’s edge, swirling a few inches of water with his bare feet. He was still wearing his mission clothes, a button up and slacks. But his sleeves were rolled to the elbows and his pants tugged up to his knees. 

“C’mon Illya,” Gaby sat on the opposite edge of the tub. “It’s pedicure day.” 

Illya reluctantly shed his shoes and socks, joining Napoleon and Gaby in dunking his feet into the tub. The water was warm and silky, and Illya had a sneaking suspicion that there were some very expensive soaps in the tub. He didn’t complain, however, because his feet were freezing, and the water did a good job of warming him up. 

“And,” Napoleon reached behind him, where there was a bottle of fancy champagne waiting. “Curtesy Of Waverly.” 

Gaby squealed as Napoleon popped the cork off the champagne, and accepted a very full glass. Illya turned it down. 

“I am not liking the champagne,” he said softly, examining Napoleon’s face as he spoke. 

“More for us,” Gaby hummed happily. “Solo, do you have the masks?” 

“Unfortunately,” Napoleon said, putting the champagne back behind him. “The store didn’t have any. I did get some other things. It’s all written in Italian, which I speak but don’t read.” 

Illya raised a eyebrow. “How?” He asked as Gaby began sifting through Napoleon’s bag of goodies. 

Napoleon shrugged. “I learned to speak it while I was employed in the war effort. One of my bunkmates was Italian American, and he taught us all how to speak it. But I never learned to write or read it. Sanders thought my speaking it was enough.” 

“What you got us mostly hair care,” Gaby said, gesturing to the line of products. “But this is a nice skin thing we can use. It’s more a cleanser than anything else though.” 

She showed them how to apply the sweet smelling lotion, leaning over to help Illya massage it into his face. When she was done, she kissed his cheek, right overtop the scrape he’d gotten three days previous. 

“No kiss for me?” Napoleon teased, and Gaby stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Get Illya to kiss you.” 

Napoleon glanced at Illya, embarrassment turning his face bright red. Illya, equally ashamed, turned away and examined the line of hair care products. His Italian was rusty, but he picked one up that had a few familiar words, and chucked it at Napoleon’s head. 

“For curls.” 

Napoleon opened the container and sniffed it experimentally, wrinkling his nose and holding the product at arm’s length. “That smells awful!” 

Gaby wrestled him closer, quickly gesturing Illya to her side. “Quick!” 

It didn’t take much, as Napoleon sat very still while Gaby massaged the product into his curls. “Illya, darling, will you go into my bag and grab my curlers?” 

“Gaby!” Napoleon whined, squirming. “Seriously?” 

But Illya was already following her orders, passing her the plastic bag of hot pink curlers. They were smaller than Illya was used to seeing, and he sat curiously by Gaby’s side as she began to take chunks of Napoleon’s hair and roll them up expertly. 

“Do you want to try?” She asked, handing Illya a curler. He nodded, and shakily followed her instructions. His curler was a bit lopsided, but Gaby beamed when he finished. It made his heart flutter in a very undignified way. 

“Here,” Gaby handed Illya a red bandana. “Hold that for just one second.” 

He held it, watching Napoleon’s face as Gaby secured the last curler and tied the bandana in a way that would protect his hair while it dried. He seemed indifferent, almost at ease as Gaby worked. Like he was used to this in a good way. 

Illya had no idea why his heart was hammering in his chest as he traced the outline of Napoleon’s face with his eyes. The cheekbones and neck and jawline, all made his face burn with an embarrassing fire. Almost the same way he felt when he looked at Gaby. 

“Done!” Gaby exclaimed, scooting back from Napoleon. He sighed, smiling slightly. 

“Give me your foot,” he demanded, putting a towel in his lap and gesturing. “I’m going to make you pay.” 

He did, eliciting giggles from Gaby as he worked away the callouses around her heels. Then came a pretty orange nail polish, and suddenly. 

“Peril?” Napoleon looked at Illya, who had zoned out pretty early on. “Earth to Peril, I need your foot.” 

Illya looked down at his feet, still submerged in the tub. “Why?” 

Napoleon’s eyebrows shot up. “Why? So I can take care of them. You’re a hot mess.” 

Seeing no way he could get out of this, Illya slowly put his left foot in Napoleon’s lap, watching carefully as Napoleon took the pumice stone and rubbed away at the tough, whitened skin on Illya’s feet. It was relaxing, especially when Napoleon massaged a moisturizer into his skin. Illya was practically asleep when Napoleon opened a bottle of nail polish, the strong smell being the only thing to rouse Illya from his stupor. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, not angrily, just curious. 

“Painting your toes.” Napoleon leaned closer, pausing to look up at Illya. “Is purple good for you?” 

Illya nodded. The color was less purple and more red. Maybe maroon? It was nice,whatever color it was. 

“You’re lucky you aren’t ticklish,” Gaby piped up from where she was doing her own hair in bigger teal curlers. “I think Solo’d kill to hear you laugh.” 

Illya, yet again, went red around the ears. “No killing.” 

“It’s an expression,” Napoleon reassured him. “Like the cat’s pyjamas.” 

“Ah.” Illya nodded. He was still getting used to english sayings. It was hard coming from Russian to English. 

“Solo, show him your accent!” Gaby said eagerly, turning and tying her own brown and green bandana. “I swear, I’ve never heard anything like it before!” 

Napoleon ducked his head down, smiling faintly. “It really ain’t no big deal,” he said, suddenly unveiling a thick southern drawl that made Illya jump. 

“What?” He said, still in shock. “How?” 

“My Ma, she’s from Georgia,” Napoleon said, putting the nail polish away. “Real deep Georgia. I grew up on a peach farm, and the weather was always hotter than the devil’s asshole.” 

“Why do you not...” 

“Why do I hide it?” Napoleon was still speaking with that thick accent, the drawn out vowels wholly fascinating to Illya. “I dunno. Once I moved out, I started to mimic the other boys. Then I started working with y’all, and my mimic picked up on the fancy ass British ways of speakin’.” 

Illya shook his head. He couldn’t even imagine that. The shift was so jarring. “It sounds fun.” 

“Fun?” Gaby leaned back in her chair. “It’s hilarious! He did it for me once when he was drunk, and ever since then, it’s been one of my favorite party tricks!” 

Napoleon shook his head. “Y’all ridiculous.” 

Illya’s brows creased. “Y’all?” 

“Yeah,” Napoleon stood and stepped out of the tub, drying his feet off. “One person is you, two and three people is y’all, and anything above four is all y’all.” 

Gaby met Illya’s eyes. “I don’t try and understand him either.” 

After that, they all crawled into their respective beds. Or the couch, in Illya’s case. Gaby always got a bed, despite insisting she could absolutely rough it for a trip or two. Illya and Napoleon usually played chess for the second bed, but Napoleon had hurt his hip on their mission, so Illya had given him the bed so as not to case him any more pain. 

“I’m not tired,” Gaby mumbled after a few minutes. “Who wants another drink?” 

Which was how they all ended up in Gaby’s bed, sitting in a circle and drinking. Illya actually participated in this round of drinks, seeing as he got a glass of whiskey, not the champagne he didn’t like. 

“You’re too cute!” Gaby said eagerly, smiling at something Napoleon had said. “Gosh I could just kiss you!” 

Illya froze. Why on earth did that make him sick? He didn’t want Gaby to kiss Napoleon. He wanted Gaby to kiss him. Or maybe, maybe it was the other way around. He didn’t want Gaby kissing Napoleon because he wanted to be the one to kiss Napoleon. 

Gaby looked at him curiously, examining the conflicted expression on Illya’s face. “Peril? Are you okay?”

He nodded. 

“Lies.” Napoleon leaned closer, so close that Illya could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Damn lies. He’s jealous. Afraid I’ll steal your girl, Peril?” 

Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, or maybe some higher power gave him a shot of courage, but Illya shook his head. “Not jealous of you for kissing her,” he mumbled, grabbing Napoleon by the collar. “Jealous of her for kissing you.” 

Napoleon collided into him first, hot and messy and oh so very desperate. Illya pushed back, equally as hard and twice as eager. 

“Okay, I feel left out!” Gaby whined, a playful grin on her lips. Immediately, Illya and Napoleon turned to her and, in almost perfect tandem, kissed her cheeks. 

Needless to say, only one bed was used that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Would y’all want a part two where Napoleon and Gaby drag Illya into their girl’s night? Because I will write it. 
> 
> ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️


End file.
